


Cosmic Interference

by OzQueen



Category: Cormoran Strike - All Media Types, Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: 5 Things, F/M, Getting Together, Sharing a Bed, Trapped In Elevator, Undercover as a Couple, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-22 01:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: Four times Strike and Robin were trapped somewhere together, and one time they just pretended to be.





	Cosmic Interference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ardentaislinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentaislinn/gifts).



> ardentaislinn, your letter was one of the first I bookmarked for treats this year, and to actually match to you as my recipient absolutely delighted me! I think we love a lot of the same things about this canon, and I can only hope that I've managed to do some of your wonderful prompts justice. Thank you for such an inspiring yuletide letter! ♥
> 
> A couple of minor things:  
> \- This is based on the TV canon but I have stolen a couple of little things out of the books for convenience, such as the broken lift.  
> \- There are no spoilers for book 4, Lethal White.  
> \- I've also kind of hand-waved away Matthew, and my timeline through this fic is extremely (and purposefully) vague.

 

* * *

 

1.

"I don't want you to think it'll always be this easy," Strike said to Robin, his voice muffled in the upturned collar of his coat.

The January wind sliced across the rooftop again, making his eyes water and his nose run. The rooftop door — propped open with a small terracotta flower pot — thudded and knocked an irregular beat behind them.

He burrowed further into the collar of his coat and watched Robin snap another set of photographs, her gloved hands cradling the weight of the camera carefully.

"How did you know we'd be able to see them from here?" she asked.

Strike narrowed his eyes against the cutting wind and watched the silhouettes in the window across the street. "I know the girl on the front desk. Had a little word and she said she'd do me a favour and put him in a certain room."

Robin glanced sideways at him.

"I uncovered her cheating husband last year," he clarified. "It would appear she's now keen to fight the good fight against infidelity entirely."

Robin lowered the camera a little and looked across at the street at the hotel window, her nose wrinkled with disapproval. "And you knew he'd leave the curtains open?"

"Mr. Kirk likes a very specific kind of attention." Strike pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. "He might be on the third floor but there's something appealing to him about the idea of people being able to watch."

Robin tutted softly and peered through the camera again. The open curtains offered a clear view into the brightly-lit hotel room, and the intimate activities therein.

"Do you think he's been hoping she'll find out, then?" Robin asked, referring to their client. "Hoping she'll catch him?"

He tossed the match into the snow piled up against the parapet running around the roof and drew on his cigarette sharply. "I don't think it's getting caught that excites him so much as it is being seen." He exhaled blue smoke. "There's a difference."

The door thumped behind them.

"I think that's enough," Robin said, peering through the lens again and snapping a few more photographs. "There's nothing left to the imagination, and it's much too cold to stay out here any longer."

"Agreed," Strike said. He flicked ash from his cigarette and toyed with the idea of suggesting a nightcap. He rehearsed it in his head. _Fancy a drink?_

"Early night," Robin said happily, pulling her coat sleeve back to check her watch.

He swallowed the nightcap suggestion immediately. "Plans?" he asked instead.

She ducked her head and concentrated on stowing the camera in her oversized handbag. "No," she said. "Just looking forward to getting out of this wind."

 _Less ammunition for Matthew when you get home early,_ Strike surmised. _The git._

The wind sliced over the rooftop again, and they both turned away from it, digging their hands deep into their pockets and hunching their shoulders. They were both facing the door when it slammed hard against the flowerpot, smashing it into a dozen pieces and scattering dirty snow and cigarette butts everywhere.

"Oh shit," Strike said, and Robin gasped and ran forward, arm outstretched to catch the handle, but it was too late — the door swayed in the wind again, scraped over the broken terracotta, and clicked neatly closed.

Robin's gloved fingers seized the handle and tugged, but the door was sealed shut.

"Shit," Strike said again.

The wind swirled, sending up glittering crystals of snow from where it had gathered in smooth mounds on the parapet.

"Can you call someone?" Robin asked. The tip of her nose was red.

"I'll call the hotel," Strike said, motioning behind him. He dug in his pockets for his phone. "Trish might be able to send someone over to let us in."

"She won't be able to get in downstairs, will she?" Robin asked doubtfully. "Unless someone is stupid enough to just buzz her up without checking who it is."

"The nice thing about you, Robin, is that despite such overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you still choose to believe common sense will prevail." Strike ground his cigarette under the toe of his shoe. "But if she can't get in, I'll call Shanker."

Trish sounded doubtful. "I can get away in half an hour or so, maybe, when I go on my break…"

"That's fine," Strike assured her.

"Can I just walk in? Is there a code or anything on the door?"

Strike's thoughts went back to being huddled on the stoop with Robin, glancing up and down the street as he murmured instructions to her on how to manipulate the skeleton keys he'd handed her.

"Just keep hitting buzzers, and tell anyone who answers you've got a pizza delivery," he said. "Take the lift up to the top floor and then there's a flight of stairs up to the roof."

"Half an hour," Trish promised.

Robin was tugging at the door again when he hung up. "Bugger," she said. She pulled her knitted hat down over her ears. "There's not even a lock on this side of the door we can pick."

"Trish can't get away for half an hour or so," Strike said. He hesitated a moment. "Better let Matthew know you might be late."

"Is there a fire escape?" She brushed past him and began patrolling the roof boundary.

The fire escape was a yellow ladder that arched over the brick parapet and down the side of the building. Icicles clung to the rungs.

"Absolutely not," Strike said, steering Robin away from it.

"I could go down and unlock the door again —"

"Trish will be here in half an hour," he said firmly.

She wrapped her arms around herself again and glanced over his shoulder at the yellow rectangle of light that was Leon Kirk's hotel window.

Strike looked too, and saw the scene hadn't changed much in the past ten minutes. He shifted his weight and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

Suddenly it felt awkward — like being in a lift with someone, or standing in line at the bank. The silence seemed to demand that somebody break it, but without a task at hand, neither Strike nor Robin appeared to know what to talk about.

He looked away from the window. With the evidence gathered, the free show Mr. Kirk was displaying to the neighbours seemed less removed than it had before.

"Are you going to follow Umbrella Man tomorrow?" Robin asked suddenly. She had been studying the toes of her boots, but she looked up at Strike as she spoke.

"That's the plan," Strike said, relieved to suddenly have something to talk about. "He's been surprisingly active this week."

"Not meeting with anyone though?"

"Not that I've seen. Scouting locations maybe, or trying to see if he's being followed. He's twitchy." He eyed Robin warily, expecting her to suggest she follow him instead.

"He hasn't spotted you yet?"

"Not yet."

Robin glanced him up and down. "He can't be that observant."

"Are you underestimating my shadowing abilities, Ellacott?"

"No," she said. "Just his powers of observation. If I thought I was being followed, I'd remember you."

He grinned and pulled the collar of his coat up a little further. "You're different."

"I'll take that as a compliment." She shivered and stamped her feet.

"Here…" Strike took her arm and guided her closer to the shelter of the door, trying to stand between her and the wind still gusting across the open rooftop.

Her teeth chattered. "Could be worse," she said. "At least it's not raining."

Strike's fingers closed around the box of matches in his pocket. "Don't tempt fate."

She used her teeth to tug her glove off her right hand, fishing in her pocket for her mobile. "I'd better text Matthew," she said, keeping her teeth clenched.

Strike glanced down at the screen almost involuntarily. He could read the last couple of messages — both from Robin, both on different days. They each said the same thing.

_Running late, sorry. x_

He saw her hesitate, her thumb hovering over the screen. She slipped the phone back into her pocket without sending anything.

"I'm sorry about this," Strike said suddenly. "The — the door, and being late."

"Not your fault," Robin said, pulling her glove back on and smiling at him. "Matt knows this job can't always be nine to five. And if this is the worst thing to happen to either of us this week, well…"

"You're tempting fate again."

"Sorry," she said, trying to look serious. Her dimples were showing.

He thought about making a joke about docking her wages if it rained, but he paid her so little he thought the joke would fall flat. There was too much depressing reality about it to try and make light of it.

The wind blew, and Robin's teeth chattered. She shivered and stamped her feet again.

"D'you want my coat?" Strike asked, unbuttoning the front.

"Don't be stupid," she said.

"You're freezing."

"It's too cold, Cormoran, don't…"

He slipped his coat off his shoulders.

"I said don't!" she said, laughing and grabbing the lapels and dragging the coat back over his shoulders. "It's only another fifteen minutes."

"Exactly," he said. "I'll survive it."

"Idiot." She grinned up at him. "Stop it, I'm fine." She pulled the seams straight for him and clumsily buttoned his top button with her gloved fingers. Her breath hung in the air.

Strike looked down at the top of her head — the knitted cap on her red-gold hair, the dark shadows of her lashes against her pale cheeks. He thought again about making a joke, or a light-hearted comment.

_There are worse people to be trapped with._

But again, there was an underlying truth there that would ruin it; something that would make the comment feel like less of a joke and more of a confession.

He stayed silent, and let Robin button his coat buttons again, the wind stirring the settled snow across the roof behind him.

 

* * *

 

2.

"About bloody time this was done," Strike said, sliding the door to the lift open. "Do you know I've been waiting for this to be fixed since I moved into this building?"

Robin was unsuccessful at hiding her smile. "You might've mentioned it once or twice."

"I'll be able to carry twice as many groceries up to the flat, now," he said, sliding the door closed after her.

"Groceries?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well, liquid sustenance," he confirmed, thinking of the bottles of beer in the mini fridge upstairs. "But it's always better out of the pumps, Robin, so let's —"

The lift, which had just started its creaking journey downwards, shuddered to a stop.

Strike glanced through the wrought-iron gates. The floor outside his office door was at eye-level.

There was a beat of heavy silence.

"Did you do that?" Robin asked.

"No." Strike hit the button for the ground floor again. The lift didn't move. He held the button in with his thumb. "Fucking thing." He hit the button with his open palm before he turned to Robin.

She was gripping the handles of her handbag so tightly her knuckles were white.

"I'll call 999," Strike said. "The fire department should be able to get us out."

"You could call the company that was here today fixing it," Robin suggested. "Teskey and Sharp. It was on their van."

"I'll look it up." He glanced at her. "You all right?"

"Fine, just…" She blew a breath out and avoided his eyes.

He dialled, and got the out-of-hours answering machine. _Thank you for calling Teskey and Sharp Lift Engineering and Repair. We are currently unable to attend to your call. If your matter is an emergency and requires urgent attention, please call our after hours line —"_

"Got a pen?" Strike asked Robin.

She fished around in her handbag, and Strike dialled the number again to replay the message service. He read the after hours number out to Robin, and she scrawled it on the palm of her hand.

Strike held the tips of her fingers steady as she held the number up to him, clumsily typing the digits into his phone with his left hand.

"Cheers," he said, and he lowered her hand, his touch light enough for her to pull away if she wanted.

She didn't, and she kept her other hand wrapped tightly around the wrought-iron scrolling of the lift.

"We won't fall," he assured her, hoping it wasn't a lie. She shook her head, looking slightly green.

"Yeah, Teskey and Sharp, Paul speaking."

"Paul?" Strike asked. "You weren't out fixing a broken lift in Denmark Street today were you? Near Charing Cross Road?"

"Yeah?" he confirmed.

"Well three turns up and down the building and the bloody thing has seized up again. Me and my partner are stuck."

Paul cleared his throat. "Oh yeah?"

Strike eyed Robin's pale face. "You're going to want to hurry up and come and get us out."

"That's gonna be a couple'a hours," Paul said. "Ain't anyone nearby."

Strike grit his teeth. "You'll want to get here faster than that," he said quietly.

"Ain't nothin' I can do about it," Paul said. "Someone'll be out soonish. Or you can call the fire department but if they don't like doin' damage, they'll just call out another engineer. Could still be a couple'a hours."

"Christ. Fine." Cormoran rubbed at the stubble on his face. 

"Just sit tight. Charing Cross Road, eh?"

"6 Denmark Street, the old 12 Bar Café."

"Yeah, sit tight," he said again. "Couple'a hours."

Strike dropped his phone back into his pocket. "Won't be long," he said.

"A couple of hours?" Robin asked.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Not my fault you've got the volume on your phone so high," she said, fighting a smile. She looked away. Her fingers twitched against his.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Fine, fine." She swept her palm over her forehead almost irritably, brushing her hair back. "I'm not claustrophobic or anything."

"I know."

"Just…"

"Don't like being suspended in a metal cage two and a half floors up."

"Exactly."

"Quite reasonable to dislike something like that."

"I'm glad you agree." She smiled at him and looked down, carefully withdrawing her fingers from his. Her cheeks were pink which, as far as Strike was concerned, was better than green.

"We could play a game," he suggested. "I spy with my little eye, something starting with F."

She rolled her eyes. "Fluorescent light?"

"No, the answer is 'fucking useless'," he said, gesturing to the lift panel.

She snorted and rubbed her hand over her face, leaving a smear of ink on her cheek. "You gave up on me too soon," she said. "I would have guessed eventually."

"I don't doubt it." He leaned against the side of the lift. "This isn't how I wanted to spend my Friday evening."

"Not especially, no. Or any evening, really."

"Fridays are different," Strike said, thinking longingly of the Tottenham and a cold pint of Doom Bar.

"What's the difference when your Saturday morning is going to be spent trailing after old Knock-Knees?" Robin asked.

"Fridays have a different atmosphere. And it's the first evening all week it hasn't been raining. Do you know how nice it is to walk on dry pavement, Robin?"

She wasn't bothering to hide her grin anymore. "Shut up, will you?"

"If you want to spend the next two hours in silence, we can do that."

She glanced down at her hand and groaned when she saw the smeared ink on her palm. "Have I just rubbed this all over my face?"

Strike eyed the stain on her cheekbone. "Define 'all over'."

"God." She pulled her sleeve down over her hand and rubbed her cheek with it. "Is it gone?"

He pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and motioned silently. _Will you mind if I…?_

She dropped her hand and waited expectantly.

He didn't want to scrub too hard at her skin — he dabbed uselessly at the stain, which didn't fade at all under his touch, until Robin took the handkerchief out of his hand. "Let me," she said.

"It's just…" His thumb brushed briefly over her cheekbone and he dropped his hand and took a step back. "Just there," he said, and he cleared his throat loudly. Took another step back so they were on opposite sides of the lift. Cleared his throat again and focused very hard for a moment on jabbing the 'down' button with his thumb, which had tickled with electric energy when he'd brushed it over her skin.

Robin scrubbed at her cheek, a pink flush rising beneath the ink.

"Maybe I should just call 999," Strike said. "They'd get here faster than Paul what's-his-face."

"I feel like the fire department is better off being used elsewhere," Robin said, voicing Strike's silent opinion. "We're fine, it's just a bit of a wait…" She eased herself gracefully down onto the floor.

Strike followed suit, much less gracefully, swearing under his breath as he stretched his leg out. He leaned back against the wrought-iron scrolling, feeling fat and cumbersome and uncomfortable.

"Sorry I freaked out," Robin said suddenly, studiously avoiding eye contact. She used her thumb to rub the rest of the ink off her palm.

"Did you?" Strike longed to fish his cigarettes out of his pocket. He reached up and hit the lift button again, just in case, but nothing happened.

"How bad do you think it would be if we dropped?" She peered through the cage, apparently no longer nervous.

"Bad enough," Strike said.

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, staring at him with big blue eyes. "I spy," she said, "with my little eye, something starting with C."

"Cormoran."

"No."

"Is it a word you wouldn't say in front of your mother?"

She shot him a look.

"Cigarette," he said, longing for one.

"No."

"Coat. Collar. Cage. Crap Detective."

"That's two words."

He grinned at her and leaned his head back against the wrought-iron.

"Give up?" she asked.

"Never."

She grinned at him and rested her chin on her knees.

His eyes followed the red-gold strands of her hair. "Curl," he said.

"No."

He swallowed. He felt embarrassed he had noticed the way her hair was falling. He looked away, staring through the grate to the stairwell.

"You're clueless," Robin told him.

"Clueless?" He raised his eyebrows.

"That's not it."

He folded his arms and looked back at her. "We've got time," he said. "I'll get it. I'm not a private detective for nothing, you know."

Her dimples showed. "Neither am I," she said.

Two hours later, when the score was 4 - 7 in favour of Robin, and I Spy had been abandoned for making up a ridiculous nickname for their latest client (Goose Face), Strike and Robin lifted their faces to the night air, drawing deep breaths, the traffic noise and petrol fumes somehow welcome after being trapped for so long.

Behind them, Paul Sharp was locking the lift doors with a heavy chain, the Out of Order sign back in place.

"So," Strike said, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes. "Sick of me yet?"

Robin smiled at him, rocking back on her heels. "Only a little."

"Fancy a drink, then?"

She tilted her head in the direction of the Tottenham. "Let's go," she said. "First round is on you, though."

"How's that?"

"Your pathetic performance during I Spy," she said. "Unbelievable."

He laughed, and fell into step beside her.

 

* * *

 

3.

Christmas lights and tinsel flashed and winked around the glass walls wrapped around the rooftop bar, which looked out over the London skyline. Carols were blasting through the sound system, and Robin's earrings were little bells, tinkling under the curtain of her strawberry-blonde hair.

Strike leaned down as yet another Roquefort Insurance coworker drunkenly beckoned him in and breathed, "You Venitia's husband?"

"Not yet," Strike said. "Partner. Boyfriend." He glanced away, trying to sound careless about it, like it was something he had to explain all the time, Robin being his and he being Robin's, and not an obvious lie. "Cameron," he introduced himself.

"Hiya." The woman glanced sideways at Robin. "Lucky girl, eh?" she giggled, and she weaved away on heels that were far too high for someone so intoxicated.

"Christ," Cormoran said under his breath.

Robin beamed at him, playing the part with natural grace Cormoran was certain he didn't deserve. "That's Sue," she said. "Remember, I told you she really helped me out on my first day?"

Cormoran nodded and sipped at his warm beer.

"Oh, and that's John," Robin said, her tone of voice not changing at all, though she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it with a certain intensity. "We should go and say hello."

Cormoran glanced over the top of her head at the man she'd inclined her head towards — he was slipping through the door, back into the building by the lift and the stairwell, his head bowed, avoiding eye contact.

"Let's go," Cormoran murmured, and Robin led the way, her hand still in his.

John Maxwell was suspected of money laundering and insurance fraud, and Robin had suspected — not unreasonably, Cormoran thought — that he would use the staff Christmas party as a cover to take the next step in his efforts towards a bigger payoff. The large amount of strangers milling around the rooftop balcony area would loan a handy excuse to Maxwell should any questions be asked about security breaches downstairs.

Cormoran was posing as Robin's — Venitia's — 'plus one' to the party, and he'd spent the entire evening questioning his own sanity for agreeing to it.

He looked down at his hand in hers, and tried not to think about how long it had been since someone had so casually touched him.

It was warmer inside. The Roquefort Insurance office, which Robin had been undercover at for the past six weeks, was three floors down.

She and Cormoran slipped into the stairwell together. Her shoes clacked loudly on the first few steps, until she reached down and took them off.

"I'll be glad when this is over," she said in a low voice, stealing ahead of him in stockinged feet. "This is exactly the kind of job I refused to take before I started working with you."

"I'll be glad to have you back, too," Cormoran said without really thinking about it, concentrating on trying to descend the stairs quietly, his hand bracing his weight against the metal banister.

"In here," she whispered. She pressed herself up against the wall and inched the door open. "No sign of Maxwell…" She led the way again.

The stairwell opened into a little foyer area. The lift doors were closed, and the glass door showing _Roquefort Insurance_ in gold lettering was also closed, though the offices beyond were lit up.

"It should be dark," she said in a low voice. "Sensors trip the lights if they detect movement after eight o'clock."

"So he's gone in ahead of us," Strike said. "Come on then, before they turn off again and give us away…"

Robin kept her shoes in one hand. She led the way through various cubicles, computer monitors dark and silent, family photographs and desk trinkets shining up at them beneath the fluorescent lighting.

"Where is he?" Cormoran whispered.

Robin shook her head. "He's got a proper office, over the back." She pointed, but the corridor ahead was dark.

"Not using his own computer," Cormoran murmured.

Robin looked around, and pointed. Far over the other side, a bald head gleamed under the lights. The stark white glare of a computer monitor shone on John Maxwell's face.

Robin and Strike ducked.

"Did he see us?" Robin whispered nervously.

"No," Cormoran said, quite sure. "He'd have tried to intercept us already. Come on."

It was hard for Cormoran to keep low — his leg didn't like him putting weight on it at such an awkward angle. He shuffled behind Robin as best as he could, below the level of the cubicle walls, trying very hard to ignore the pain in his knee, and the way Robin's black cocktail dress clung to her as she crept through the maze of desks.

They slipped into the cubicle behind Maxwell. He hadn't looked up; he was anxiously biting his thumb and watching the computer screen.

Robin whispered very close to Cormoran's ear, her breath hot and soft on his skin. "What do we do?"

He shook his head. They'd already struck gold by finding what computer Maxwell was using to do his dirty work — they'd be able to plant a trace or a keyboard tracker on it and go from there. They were too far away to see the screen, but Cormoran took out his phone, made sure it was on silent, and carefully raised it over the cubicle wall, just high enough to snap a couple of pictures of Maxwell sitting at the computer.

He leaned back in his seat, and Cormoran and Robin ducked low again, carefully lowering themselves beneath the desk in the next cubicle. Cormoran stretched his leg out cautiously, suppressing a groan.

Robin's earrings tinkled softly — too softly for Maxwell to hear, but she reached up and slipped them off.

"Stupid," she mouthed silently, rolling her eyes at Strike like she thought her little Christmas earrings might have jeopardised the entire case.

She was very close. Strike could smell her shampoo, or her perfume — or both. Her breath still fluttered on his cheek as they both tried to watch Maxwell's computer screen using their narrow viewpoint through the gap in the cubicle walls.

The lights above them flickered off, and Robin placed a gentle hand on his arm as a reminder not to move and set the sensors off again.

Maxwell's computer screen was a brilliant rectangle of white light, casting a ghostly sheen over his bony face and hairless head.

"Fuck it," he whispered to himself. "You only live once, John." He leaned back and the lights flicked on again as the building detected someone still working at their desk.

Cormoran longed to step out from his cramped hiding place and confront him — longed to ask him about the money he owed Letrelle; about the numerous insurance claims Robin had dug from the archives and linked together; about the claims numbers that wrapped in and around themselves and looped back in giant, hopeless dead ends.

Robin's fists were clenched.

Cormoran glanced sideways at her, noted the way her eyes glittered, and the pink flush rising to her cheeks; the way her mouth was parted, excitement and adrenaline absolutely exuding out of her.

He shook his head in silent warning.

_Not yet. Soon. But not yet._

She tucked her hair behind her ears, frustrated. She pressed her eye to the gap in the cubicle wall, watching John Maxwell intently. Her hand reached for Cormoran's, for what reason he didn't know, but she clung to it furiously as she watched their case further unfold in front of them.

Computer keys clacked and tapped loudly as Robin and Strike sat silently under a desk, hand in hand.

 _Soon_ , Strike thought again, looking down at Robin's slender fingers clutching his. _But not yet._

 

* * *

 

4.

Robin slid the window of the Land Rover open a couple of inches.

A cold blast of air stole in, and she flinched away from the rain flicking and tapping off the policeman's waterproof jacket. It streamed from the brim of his hat and dripped from the end of his red nose.

"Cannae get through here," he shouted over the roar of raindrops hammering and bursting all around them. "Bridge is washed out."

"Is there any way around?" Robin asked.

He shook his head and pointed back the way they came, the volume of the rain and his thick accent making it near impossible to understand what he said next.

"Okay, thank you," Robin said anxiously, sliding the window closed again and wiping the rain from her face with her sleeve.

"We shouldn't be driving in this anyway," Strike said.

Robin let the wheel spin through her fingers as she straightened out of the U-turn.

"This isn't just rain, Robin — somewhere out there in a field very close by, there's a man building an ark for all his farm animals." He gestured out into the blackness surrounding them.

Robin rolled her eyes, but her smile had returned, at least.

"We'll find somewhere to pull over," Strike decided. "There was a motel back this way, wasn't there?"

"A few miles back," she confirmed, but she didn't sound happy about having to stop.

Strike glanced sideways at her. "I know you wanted to get back tonight," he said quietly. "But the bloody bridge is washed out, Ellacott, and not even your driving can get us through that."

She just shook her head and flexed her fingers around the steering wheel. "I hope there's a mini bar," she said.

"No minibar," the desk clerk said, a cigarette trembling on his lower lip. "And I only got one room left, and if youse want it youse had better book it because that bridge is gonna have people out of sorts all night long. I seen it already, rooms all booked up 'cause folk are gettin' turned back."

"We can keep driving," Robin suggested, her fingers drumming nervously on the reception desk.

Strike looked at her, and then out of the pouring rain. In the ten steps between the car and the front desk, they'd both been soaked through. The road could no longer be seen under a wash of silvery rainwater.

"We'll take the room," he said reluctantly, handing over his credit card.

Robin pushed her hands deep into her coat pockets and avoided eye contact.

Strike tried to reason with her as the door of their room finally closed behind them. "We don't have to sleep," he said. "But I can't sit in that car on the side of the road all night, and driving isn't an option either."

Robin sat gingerly on the edge of the narrow double bed.

Strike concentrated on shrugging out of his damp coat, which he hung on the back of the door. Once that was done, he found he was out of options for things to busy himself with, so he eased his weight down beside Robin, the bed dipping and creaking beneath him.

"Sorry I've been so grumpy," Robin said in a breathless rush, looking down at the toes of her wet shoes.

"I hadn't noticed," Strike lied.

"It's just, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid, you know…" She glanced at him and then looked away. "Unnecessary expenses," she added sharply, as though to correct whatever else he might have been thinking about. "And delays, and just… We're just getting ahead again, and this feels like a setback we should be beyond." She raked her fingers through her damp hair and then folded her arms across her chest.

Strike felt a swell of affection for her. "We are ahead," he said gently. "This is an unexpected expense, not an unnecessary one."

"We could have just pulled over and slept in the car," she said. "We've done that before. Barrow-in-Furness, remember?"

"Yeah, and I paid for it with a week's stiffness," Strike said, stretching his leg out. "If you want to go and sleep in the Land Rover, be my guest." He nudged her, and then eased his bulk back down onto the bed, wriggling a little so the lumps in the mattress flattened beneath his back.

Robin huffed and stretched out beside him.

They stared up at the water-stained ceiling. The light fitting was crooked and held the shadowy corpses of several moths.

The rain hammered down outside, drumming on the roof and the pavement and all the cars lined up outside each door along the motel.

"I'm tired," Robin whispered.

"I know. Me too." Cormoran flexed his knee a little. He didn't think she'd mind if he took his leg off — she'd seen him without it numerous times — but he still felt the urge to ask. _Would you mind if I…_

"We might as well get comfortable," she muttered, as if reading his thoughts.

She toed her shoes off and lined them up neatly at the end of the bed, heels together. She took her coat off and pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands, and then dragged the blankets on the bed down.

Strike thought it would be pushing his luck to take his trousers off, but his leg was off, and leaning against the wall beside the bed, and he was already infinitely more comfortable for it.

"It's those bloody cobblestones," he groaned to Robin, pummelling the thin, flat pillows at the head of the bed, trying to make a decent shape to rest his head upon.

"I told you not to come with me all that way," she said, exasperated. "I told you to wait in the car."

"And let you have all the fun?" He raised his eyebrows at her, though he knew he looked guilty. She had been right, as usual, and he had been stubborn. As usual.

"Light on or off?" she asked.

"Off."

She reached up and flicked the switch. The room was still bathed in light from the large roadside sign visible across the narrow carpark — _No Vacancy_ outlined in red letters. It shone through the curtains and laid a strip of light across the foot of the bed.

"I snore," Strike warned her.

"I know."

He felt a jolt of alarm, until he remembered the Barrow-in-Furness trip, and the uncomfortable hours spent dozing in the Land Rover.

 _We've done this before,_ he reminded himself.

But his mind buzzed with adrenaline and affection — his memories were full of the way her voice sounded when she admitted worry about the expense of the motel, and the way her breath felt on his cheek when they were crouched under a desk together, and the way her fingers felt against his when they were trapped in a lift together, and the shadows her eyelashes made on her cheeks when they were trapped on a snow-covered rooftop together.

Robin curled on her side, facing away from Strike. "Night then."

"Night," he croaked. He stretched out on his back, teetering dangerously on the edge of the bed so he didn't brush against her. They were both fully clothed, but he could sense her body in the bed beside him.

It had been building and building and building. He had always known his defences would fall at some point, but there had been a convenient number of roadblocks in the way — a wedding ring being the largest of them.

He imagined reaching for Robin's hand in the dark, and tracing the bare length of her fingers with his own.

He imagined falling into a deep sleep beside her, and waking up curled around her, both of them spooned together in the tiny bed.

HIs eyes shot open, and he stared up at the grey ceiling, heart pounding.

If ever there was an excuse, he had just been handed one on a plate. A washed-out bridge, a torrential downpour, just one narrow motel bed to share… Fate had passed him an opportunity he was unlikely to ever see again.

Strike listened to Robin breathing quietly beside him, and grit his teeth, the fear of rejection and awkwardness suddenly rising inside him like bile. The idea that he might somehow fuck all of this up, and that Robin might leave… and then where would he be?

Fate could throw him as many opportunities as she liked — fate was no match for the stubborn resistance of Cormoran Blue Strike.

 _Stubbornness,_ he thought wearily. _A likely story, you bloody coward._

 

* * *

 

5.

Afternoon sunlight shone through Cormoran's office window, lighting dust motes drifting through the air.

The sun had been shining on his shoulders while he was building the file for his latest case, and he was feeling pleasantly warm and satisfied.

Robin tapped lightly at his door before she strode in and set a strong cup of tea down on his desk. "Is that the O'Riordan case?"

"It is indeed." He sipped his tea and watched the sunlight glow through Robin's hair. "How did you go trailing the Bulldog?"

Her eyes lit up, and he knew she'd come into his office specifically to discuss whatever it was she'd found out that morning.

She pulled up a chair. " _Well,_ " she said, with the air of someone who had a very juicy piece of a gossip to tell, "Bulldog isextremely suspicious. Either he's recognised me one too many times, or he's cottoned on to the fact _someone_ might be tailing him, because he came out of the pub today in full disguise."

"Full disguise? How'd you know it was him?"

"Same shoes," Robin said dismissively. "People change jackets and bags, and they'll wear wigs, but nobody ever thinks to change their shoes. I knew it was him straight away."

Strike didn't bother trying to hide the pride on his face, and Robin beamed back at him.

"So I followed him," she said, "and he led me straight to his mistress. She went _right_ off at him, right there in the street, saying he looked a proper idiot. Took his hat and wig off while he was still on the front porch, and I got all the photos I needed."

Strike looked at the satisfaction pouring out of her — the sparkle in her eyes and the excited flush on her cheeks. His heart flipped stupidly in his chest.

"Case closed, then," he said.

"Yeah." She shrugged and smiled at him. "Oh, and — there's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"Today. I knew you wouldn't remember, and I don't want you to feel guilty, but it's our anniversary today."

His heart flipped again at the word, and he scalded his tongue on his tea. "What?" he spluttered.

"Since I started working here," she said, arching her eyebrows at him.

"Oh, right. It's — are you sure?" He felt alarmed. How many years now? How much time had flown past with Robin at his side?

She was still flushed, and he recognised the expression on her face as the one she had when she had something important to tell him.

His heart slammed against his ribs, less stupid now, more terrified. She was going to announce something, and it was probably going to result in him being alone again, scrambling to tie together loose ends —

"You've got that look on your face," Robin said.

"What look?"

"Sort of a cornered animal look."

"You've got a look on your face too," he said defensively.

"What look?" she asked.

"The one you get when you're about to admit something you're not sure I'll approve of." He looked at her over the rim of his mug, the steam from his tea swirling in front of him.

"I do not have that look," she said, "because I'm not admitting to anything. Not — not an admission, but I do want to tell you something, and…" She faltered, and looked down at her hands.

Strike knew that if she still wore rings on her fingers, she'd be twisting them nervously.

But the rings were long gone, and Robin drew a breath and looked up at him again. "It's just," she said, gazing helplessly at him.

"Just?"

"Just that, when I started working here I didn't dare imagine that… I mean, even in those early days, I might have hoped…" She blinked back tears.

"Bloody hell, Robin," Strike said gruffly. He swallowed the rest of his tea in one searing mouthful, and pushed his chair back, getting to his feet so he could move closer to her. "We've had other anniversaries and you've never gone to pieces."

"I know, shut up," she said, half-laughing and blinking back tears. "Shut up, I just… This year has felt different, like we've really… like we've really been in sync, and things are really taking off for us as a business, and I've learned so much, Cormoran, and it's just, I wanted to tell you, that's all, that you really did… that you really have absolutely changed my life." She swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.

He leaned back against the edge of his desk in front of her, watching the way the sun highlighted her hair, watching the way her lashes darkened and thickened with her tears.

He held his hand out and she took it without hesitation, clutching his fingers tightly.

"You've changed my life too," he said. "I don't know what cosmic interference I caused to deserve getting you as a temp, but whatever it was, it was worth it."

She laughed and wiped her eyes again. "Thanks."

"Now cheer the fuck up," he said helplessly, and she laughed and got to her feet, burying her face against his shoulder.

He only hesitated for half a second before he slipped his arms around her waist and hugged her. "Happy anniversary," he said.

"Yeah." Her voice was muffled in his shirt.

"And this is…" He leaned back a little and she followed, leaning into him, her weight pushing comfortably against him.

"I'm not a hugger," Robin said, sounding almost miserable.

"Me either."

"I just wanted to hug you."

"Is this a hint that I'm working you too hard? Are you losing your marbles a little bit?" He closed his eyes and he could smell her shampoo and it reminded him again of being stuck with her under a desk.

"Must be." She pulled away a little and wiped her eyes.

"You'd better head home then," Strike said. His finger and thumb caught the hem of her shirt and he let the material slide over his fingertips before he dropped it.

"Yeah, I… I should go home," she agreed, blinking at him.

"Your case is closed," he reminded her.

She was so close to him. She had pulled out of the hug but she still had hold of him, and his hands were still on her waist, and her perfume lingered in the air, and there were years between them — _years_ — and fate and opportunity and cosmic interference…

"Unless you need help getting O'Riordan started," she suggested quietly. "I could stay, if you needed… if you needed a hand."

"Yeah?" His thumb twitched against the hem of her shirt. Back and forth, back and forth. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric.

"If you wanted. I know you probably don't need —"

"No, that'd be — if you could stay…"

Her hands slid over his shoulders a little, and it felt only natural to bow his head to her.

She lifted her face, and they met in the middle — her mouth already softly parted, the taste of salt on her lips, her breath soft and warm on his cheek, as it had always been, those few treasured times he had felt it before.

"So I'll stay then," she whispered.

"It's just…" His voice was gravelled and low. "It's just this case," he said. "I could use some help getting started, and…"

"Right." She nodded, and her body swayed a little, her fingers tightening in the front of his shirt. "I don't suppose I'll get away tonight then."

He kissed her again, his hands splaying out over her hips, drawing her closer to him. "I'm afraid not."

"Another late night." She tutted, and smiled against his mouth. "Still," she said quietly, "could be worse, I suppose."

"There you go again," he murmured. "Tempting fate to provide us something worse."

"Doesn't seem to have worked so far, Cormoran." She smiled at him. "Everything with you just keeps working out."

 

* * *

 


End file.
